They’d hardly talked in the hospital, said not a word at Momma’s. He didn’t know what she was thinking, what she was feeling, yet he seemed acutely aware of all the other pain in the world. Pop’s loss throbbed in his heart. Momma’s fears entangled his thoughts, her need to keep them close, as though she could stop any others from injury and death. Didn’t she know they were pawns?
Job’s entire family had been crushed in one blow so that God could watch what he would do. Lance gripped his head.
Stop it. Get out
. He’d felt darkness like this before. God’s ways were above his. He couldn’t ascribe human motivations to the Lord. And where did Rico’s choices come in? Things got messy when people were involved.
Dressed in jersey pajamas, Rese came out of the bedroom and joined him on the couch, tucking her foot up under her. “Are you all right?”
All right? Now that was an expansive question. “Just thinking.” He hadn’t expected comfort. He’d thought her own fears and memories would occupy her, and guiltily avoided addressing them. Enough grief had been dredged for one night.
She drew her other knee up and held it with her arms. “If you could be anything in the world, what would it be?”
Of all the things she might have said, he hadn’t expected that. But she’d turned her frank and darling face to him and obviously expected an answer. “Besides partners with you?”
“Anything.”
“Shortstop for the Yankees.”
She rolled her eyes. “Typical.”
“I suppose you’ve got better?”
“A whale.”
“What?” He laughed.
“Why not?” She rested her chin on her knee. “Think how peaceful it would be under all that water, how simple.”
“Little stressed out?”
She shrugged.
“Rese Barrett a whale. Boggles the mind.”
She straightened. “Mom and I pretended all kinds of animals.”
“Ah yes, the earthworm.”
“More often it was flying things. Or mermaids. Underwater creatures.” She released a slow breath. “Those were good times.”
He circled her in his arm. “I’m glad.” He loved that she kept looking for the good in something that had hurt so much. As he should. As he used to.
She rested her head against him. “If Rico had died, would you still love God?”
His heart lurched. Thoughts of Rico unresponsive, unbreathing had filled his mind as he ran toward the corner. Gone in an instant. One wrong choice—or simply God’s will. “I can’t think about that.”
She nodded. She would leave it alone, but then he said, “I don’t think I’m capable of hating God. Some people get angry and turn away, but that would be like turning my back on Rico, or you. It’s just not in me.”
“So why do you hit the road when things get tough?”
He thought about it, wanting her to understand. “It seems like running, and I do need miles and speed and distance. But it’s really searching, trying to get closer. It sounds dumb, I know.”
“It’s not dumb, Lance. It’s how you are. You have to be close.”
“Sometimes I need so much to know why, to see how, to understand
what
God’s thinking! I want to climb inside His skin.” He didn’t expect her to get it. He hadn’t found anyone who did. Not even Chaz experienced the desire to grab God by the ankle and wrestle.
Lance nestled Rese into his neck, wondering what she’d do if he kissed her as he wanted to. She yawned. In another moment she would get up and close the door between them. And so he seized the moment he had, and her mouth. Sweetness. Killer sweetness.
————
Lance kissed her as though he might never have the chance again, transferring his worry for Rico and everything else pent up inside onto her lips, and Rese responded with fervor. She’d intended comfort, distraction maybe. But now she understood his need for closeness, his desire to touch, to connect, to be one with another being.
Yes
.
It might not be her natural inclination, or maybe it was. Maybe it just took Lance to make
her
real. Desire surged. Time no longer mattered. She’d never felt this way before, so totally consumed.
Lanced owned her, but he pulled back, groaning. “Off the couch. Go to bed, Rese, or I’m not responsible.”
The shock of it caught her cold until she saw the strain that once again sent a tremor to his hands. He looked up as she stood. “I’m sorry. But you’re more than a number on my wall. I want to do this right.”
She got the point, but even now she’d give in if he reached for her.
He stuck his fingers in his hair. “I shouldn’t have started it. I’m sorry.”
“We’ve been here before.” The chemistry had set in immediately, fueling her initial animosity, but too soon becoming an adhesive no solvent she knew could break.
He nodded. “Take a shovel to my skull, will you?”
“I’m past that.”
He smiled wryly and took her hand, studying it with his eyes and fingers. “I’m in a bad way here, Rese.”
“Me too.” She couldn’t believe she’d admitted it, but he already knew.
He brought her knuckles to his lips. “Please go.” But he didn’t release her.
“That requires disconnection.”
“I’m working up to it.”
She drew a shaky breath. “You better work fast.”
He groaned again and let her go. “And lock the door,” he called when she reached her room.
She did, but she didn’t lock the bathroom door, and she wondered if he’d try it and if she hoped he would.
Grief is a coat you put on and off,
wearing it only until it has warmed the chill of loss,
but not so long as to take the edge from memory.
I
would write that in my diary if it had not been lost in the struggle. I would put it in ink to remind me of this time, this aching that is both sickness and life. Something inside me wants to hope, but how can I when everything I know is changed?
Standing beside the road, arms crossed, I wait. Marco’s car has broken down again. It’s the hard miles, he says, and I know it well. Marco appears unfazed, but if he were honest he might wish he’d never come to Sonoma. A man with important business, strapped with a wife people want to kill. I promise myself he won’t regret it, but is that even possible?
He laughs. “You’re going to worry a dent in your forehead.” He climbs out from under the hood, sleeves rolled, hands dirty. He rubs them with a rag, then motions me over. His arms are the only sanity I know.
“What are we doing, Marco?”
“Climbing back in and praying this works.”
Turning aside the larger question, he tosses the rag into the trunk. He smells oily when we get in, and I know he’s running out of patience. If the car doesn’t start, will we stay there for good, building a hut from branches and leaves, begging from people passing by? Silly. But worlds of possibilities gape before me; things I’d never considered possible I’ve now seen with my own eyes. I could not have guessed I’d be here with Marco Michelli and no one else anywhere who matters.
I have lost my home, my family, my peace. Why not my mind? Is that any more unbelievable than Papa … No. I still can’t think of it. And my Nonno, my dear, dear Nonno. It isn’t right. It isn’t just. God … isn’t just.
And yet there is Marco. I tell my heart to make an end of grief and accept what good has come. Another thing I would write is that my heart does not listen very well.
————
Rese opened when Lance tapped her door, but it was morning and he’d recovered—mostly. He pulled a side smile. “I’ve got bread and cheese and peppers and sausage.”
She bunched her fingers into her hair and met his gaze with her sleepy face. “Are you bribing me?”
“Bribing would be
sfogliatelli
and
trota al vino rosso
.”
“Oh.” She yawned and stretched, adorably kittenish and totally unaware of her impact.
“Help yourself, okay? I’ve got to get Rico before the hospital charges another day.”
“That was major surgery. They’re discharging him already?”
“He’s discharging himself.” Rico had called at the crack of dawn, half-coherent but determined. Lance shrugged. “None of us is flush right now.”
“But—”
He bent in and kissed her sleep-soft mouth. “I won’t be long.”
He borrowed Momma’s Fiat and got to the hospital as the doctor was declining liability if Rico left her care prematurely.
“I absolve you, lady; now get me out of here.” Rico sank weakly back against the pillows until the nurse brought the discharge papers. His left hand was as dexterous as his right had been, but his signature looked shaky as he signed the responsibility-for-payment forms, muttering curses under his breath. When all the bills were in it would be ugly, and he hadn’t had anything big or steady since Lance broke up the band.
They had a sweet setup in their living arrangements, but none of them wanted to take advantage of Pop. And as soon as things were certain in Sonoma, Lance would be out altogether. Rico would have to do something, even if it was running sound for other bands. He’d done it before, and people knew he could. But it would eat him alive to watch someone else with the sticks.
Lance doubted Rico was thinking that far ahead as he made it to the living room chair and sank like a ship. Chaz had completed his second job’s deliveries and met them at the bottom of the stairs. Now he walked around behind Rico, placing both hands on his head, eyes closed. Lance had prayed as they waited yesterday, but Rico took the laying on of hands better from Chaz. Lance could hug the man’s neck, but anything super-spiritual … fagedda-bout-it. Rico knew all too well his warts and blemishes.
He sat down beside Rese on the couch, trying not to recall last night’s electricity—easier done in the daytime with Chaz and Rico than alone with her in the night. They needed to get a handle on things, where they stood with each other and the rest of the world. But right now the rest of the world was pressing so close he could hardly breathe.
He wasn’t sure yet that he was through with Nonna, and Rico would need help for the next few days at least. He looked across to Rico’s bruised gaze. “Chopper needs some work.”
Rico sank back and grinned. “Yeah.”
Rese looked from one to the other and shook her head. She might never understand, but that was okay.
————
So what if she’d never heard of Bloomingdale’s? Rese did not consider that a crisis, but Monica gaped. She had come down with brownies for Rico—some with finger holes where Nicky had tested their texture and durability—and one thing led to another until Rese had revealed her ignorance and Monica pounced.
Lance said not one word of protest when his sister recruited Lucy, left Doria with their cumulative kids, and shanghaied her onto the train. Maybe he wanted time with Rico—who was not in a good way—but she suspected he thought this beneficial to her general development.
Flanking her, the sisters talked over everyone else including the automated voice at each stop informing riders,
This is a Manhattanbound two train. Stand clear of the closing doors
.
“So Monica says you do construction?”
Rese jumped.
Lucy flipped her coarse ponytail over her shoulder and caught Rese squarely in her myopic gaze. They must have exhausted the rundown of each kid, every lousy teacher, and all their husbands’ gripes that she had successfully tuned out.
“Renovation. I tear it down first.”
Lucy shared a glance with Monica. “And your pop got you into it?”
Obviously Monica had filled her in on the relevant details, so why did she need to hear it again? “I don’t do it anymore. I sold the company.” She paused while the commuters exited and took their seats. “The crew’s not happy about that, but it’s not my problem.”
“You ran the business?” Lucy shifted on the slick blue plastic bench to make room for a pierced and braided man who outweighed her twice over. He plopped down and jived to the beat on his headphones.
“Technically, I was in charge of the crew, and Brad was in charge of the sites.” It should have been the other way around. She had the technical expertise and gut instincts; Brad owned the guys. “He did answer to me, but he could act autonomously.” The source of much friction.
“And you liked that work?”
Rese nodded. “I liked the work; I didn’t always like the crew. They could be really obnoxious.” Why was she telling them this? But the rapt looks on their faces led her on as she described the pranks, the insolence, Brad’s competitive attitude. She told them more than even Star knew, but not what she’d told Lance, not the incident with Sam and Charlie.
Monica’s face had taken on frank admiration, but Lucy said, “Why did you sell it?”
Rese looked away. “It was too hard after Dad died.”
“Oh.” Lucy squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry.”
Rese marveled at the warmth in her tone. Had Star ever expressed honest regret for her without launching into some dramatic pathos? Yet here was Lance’s sister, whom she hardly knew, hearing her and caring. She had no idea how to answer.
“Next stop’s Penn Station.” Monica gathered her purse. “Bloomingdale’s has an entrance there.” She stood up. “You’re gonna love this.”
Rese doubted that, but she’d make the best of it. “If we stay here much longer, I’ll need a few things.”
Both women looked at her as the train lurched to a stop. “Oh, honey,” Monica said. “You don’t buy from Bloomies. You only shop.”
Rese looked from one to the other. What was the point of shopping if you didn’t get what you needed? They burst into laughter at her expression, but even in English they were speaking a foreign language.
————
There is bliss in not knowing what can happen next,
not seeing a trial until it’s there.
Then there is no chance to run.
I
will suffocate in Manhattan. What were they thinking, cramming so many people into one place? How can Marco expect me to live, to breathe? His momma’s house is no house at all; it is a tunnel of rooms crammed together with other people’s rooms, too close and too flimsy. I can hear everything.
“That’s life,” Marco says and laughs when I whisper in our bedroom, four painted walls with no window and one photograph of Marco’s dog and three circus clowns with hardly any teeth.